


The Woodshed

by C_D_Wofford



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, First Time, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kid Fic, No Slash, No Smut, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Scared Sam Winchester, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 02:13:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18459347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C_D_Wofford/pseuds/C_D_Wofford
Summary: Some time after "Don't Hold Your Breath", the boys find themselves in hot water with John again. But this time, John has decided Sammy is old enough to get the same punishment Dean's been secretly dealing with for years now. Dean won't let that happen. Not if he has anything to say about it. But maybe John's learned something from his past mistakes...maybe Dean doesn't have to worry after all.





	The Woodshed

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! So like the summary said, this is kind of a sequel to my previous story "Don't Hold Your Breath". I wanted to write one about Sammy's first experience with the belt, but also have John not being a complete jerk, because I do honestly believe he loved his boys. Let me know what you think! I feel this one's a bit more disjointed than the other, but you know. We'll see. Leave me comments and even criticism; I take it seriously and it'll make my day to hear from you! Enjoy!

“Johnny, take a breather. Sit down and have a drink before you do anything stupid.” Bobby grabbed a fistfull of his friend’s coat as he plowed through the door to guide him to a chair but John shrugged him off like an insect. He even shook his head at the bottle of Jack Bobby had been offering, running a hand through his thick black hair shining with rainwater. A few silver drops fell onto Bobby’s dusty carpet.

“Bobby, save it. I’m taking care of this now. I won’t kill ‘em.” His low voice was sharp and decided. Military. And absolutely final.

Bobby huffed in supreme sarcasm. 

“Well, thank God. I feel so much better. I guess it’s alright, then.” 

John looked at him and his hard face lost just the slightest of its edge. 

“I won’t, Bobby. Why do you think I’m not throwing back shots? I need a drink right about now, but I won’t touch it until this is handled. I’m not gonna damage the boys. But I can’t let this slide. For either of ‘em.” 

Bobby sighed heavily. 

“Martin okay?”

“Yeah, will be. Laid up with a busted shoulder-blade and clavicle snapped like a twig. Gonna be useless for a few weeks, months, I don’t know, but he’ll be fine. I promised him I’d deal with Sam and Dean to his satisfaction, and he’s letting it go.”

Bobby rolled his eyes, falling heavily into the ancient wooden rolling chair by the fireplace, mumbling “He’s letting it go. When his own stupid clumsy self was just as much to blame...trust a maverick hunter with no kids to think he knows all about raisin’ ‘em.”

John almost smiled, looking over at his friend with some amusement in his eyes. 

“You realize that describes you too, right?” 

Bobby shook his head and glared at John, drinking the glass of amber whisky sitting on his cluttered desk. 

“Excuse me, you don’t think handling Dean, Sam, and you qualifies? I deserve a freaking medal.” He was quiet for a long moment. Fat raindrops pelted the windows, rattling the older ones in their panes. The cacophony of the deluge on the vast collection of scrap-metal and old junkers in the yard filtered through the screen door. The fire snapped and hissed quietly as the short-lived goodwill in the room quickly faded, John’s features set into his Winchester determination once again. Bobby’s heart sank and he drained the rest of his drink before speaking. “Where are the boys?”

“By the car, out in the shop. I told them to wait for me there. Had to cool off.”

“Johnny, you know you’re welcome here. Always have been, always will be. You and those boys? You’re family.” Bobby paused, watching John stiffen a little as he waited for the next part. There it was, Winchester pride. Bobby wasn’t about to be run over though. “If you ever need a place to go come Hell or high water, you come here. You know that. But I ain’t lettin’ you do this on my property. That’s just that.” 

John was quiet for a moment, and then his jaw hardened. He zipped up his Carhart and strode toward the door, wrenching open the screen. 

“Where the sam hill you think you’re going?” Bobby barked, standing up suddenly. John didn’t even slow his pace. 

“Off your property to get this over with. Keep dinner hot; we’ll be back in an hour.”

“John, wait-” Bobby made it to the door just in time to see the Impala spinning mud under her tires as she growled out of the soggy gravel soup of the driveway. “D*** it,” he snarled, under his breath. Sam’s plaintive young face looked back at him from the back window. His eyes stood out wide in his narrow, pale face. And then the grey curtain of rain closed around them as they drove away. Bobby dragged a hand over his face, leaning wearily against the doorpost for a long moment before he shuffled to the kitchen and coaxed the gas stove to light. He had some frozen fries in the freezer someplace, he was pretty sure. Those boys’d deserve something nice tonight. 

 

\-----------

“Dad?”

Sam’s voice was small and hesitant. After the heavy silence in the car, Dean jumped a little at the sound. He threw his brother a warning look over his shoulder, willing him to be quiet. Please Sammy, don’t make this worse. He was already scared. Dad hadn’t sent Sam inside at Bobby’s; whatever happened, his baby brother was along for the ride. 

“Sam, I don’t want to hear it,” John said. He didn’t sound angry, but the movement of his hands on the wheel was very deliberate, and his tone was measured and decided. He pulled the little scuffed black flip-phone out of his pocket and thumbed in a number. 

“Martin, it’s John….everything is fine. That hunting lodge you’re squattin’ in, is the woodshed out back open?...No, I don’t need it for storage. I need to borrow it for an hour or so, if that’s fine...yeah. Thanks Martin. We’ll be in and out, you won’t even know we were there.” He snapped the phone closed and pulled the car off the winding asphalt of the backroad onto a squelching rutted mud track that curved away into the gloaming of a rare Kansas forest at dusk. The rain wasn’t as heavy under the trees, but the drops were bigger and heavier when they did fall, hitting the car like gravel. 

The headlights of the Impala brushed over a little hunting cabin, light shining through the calico curtains. Martin’s temporary spot. He drove around back and pulled right to the door of a ramshackle little shed, cutting the engine. 

“Come on, boys.”

He got out of the door and went inside, leaving the shed door open in unarguable expectation. They would follow him. Dean swallowed down the nausea trying to claw up from inside him and manfully set his jaw. He looked back at Sam and reached over the back of the seat to mess up his hair before he took the plunge and followed Dad, his little brother close behind him. 

John yanked the ratty piece of twine to make the naked bulb overhead blink into existence, illuminating the small space. The floor was scattered with bark and splinters, split wood lining the walls in neat stacks, a few rows deep, some stacks nearly as tall as Dad and some only about waist or knee high. Dad sat down on an upended log, hands resting on his thighs as he regarded his boys for a moment, breathing out through his nose. 

“Front and center, Sam.” 

Sam stepped out from behind Dean, hesitantly, moving forward obediently to stand and bear his father’s scrutiny. Dean shifted his weight, warning bells going off. This was unfamiliar. He watched every move. 

“You skipped out on the meeting place. You and Dean were supposed to be waiting for me outside the depot at eight o’ clock sharp. When you were there I had to go looking for you, I wasn’t there for Martin when we agreed and he didn’t have backup. And where did I find you?”

His dark eyes fixed Sam condemningly. Sam mumbled something, not meeting his eyes. John leaned forward ominously. 

“Care to repeat that, son?” he asked in a warning tone. 

“Yes sir, I said we were at the diner,” Sam said, raising his head and speaking more clearly.   
“Where at the diner, exactly?”

“The arcade room. But we weren’t just playing, we were waiting for the food.”

“What were my orders?”

Sam didn’t answer, staring mutinously at Dad’s left boot. Dean couldn’t see his face from behind, but the stiff set of Sam’s neck and shoulders did not bode well. Come on, man, he urged desperately. Sam tossed his head a little but his stubbornness didn’t waiver. Dad bristled and opened his mouth to thunder a warning but Dean jumped in, dutifully sheltering Sammy from the storm about to break. 

“Your orders were to wait for pickup at 5th and Elm at seventeen-hundred, sir.”

“Did I ask you, Dean? Stand down, son, you’ll get your turn.”

“It’s Martin’s own fault he got hurt,” Sam murmured, rebellion coloring his words a dangerous shade. Dean closed his eyes and John slowly turned to his younger his quiet voice betraying the thin ground Sam stood on. 

“Care to repeat that?”

The kid lifted his head and met Dad’s eyes, jutting his lower jaw defiantly. 

“I said, it’s Martin’s own stupid fault! He should know better than to run into things without backup. He didn’t follow the plan, he didn’t wait for you. You were late to the pickup; we were hungry, Dad. Didn’t eat all day. Me and Dean getting a burger wouldn’t have made any trouble if Martin had any brains either, but you’re shredding us for it.”

Dean’s face was white. 

“Shut up, Sammy,” he murmured weakly. 

Dad crossed his arms, thoughtfully, leaning back to consider his son. 

“No, that’s fair. This isn’t about Martin getting hurt. This is about you two disobeying me, breaking a direct order. You didn’t wait for me, you challenged my authority and endangered the family by doing so. We’re a fighting force, boys, and without authority and discipline any unit will be torn apart. Maybe not this time, but it will. And I can’t let that happen, not to this family. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.” Dean, immediate, dutiful, attentive. 

“Yessir.” Sam, mumbling, grudging, reluctant.

Dad nodded once with an air of finality, hands going to his belt. 

“Good. We understand each other then. Sam, find a spot and hold fast.”

“What?!” Both boys at once. 

“You heard me,” John said, rising and sliding the belt free, folding it in half. “Sam first.”

Sam’s eyes were big as saucers; he was completely blindsided by this turn of events. Dean’s mouth was cotton. He knew that belt well, but Sam had never experienced Dad’s wrath. Well, not like this. Not with that. Not his Sammy. 

“No, Dad, please. Don’t, not to Sammy,” Dean croaked, his voice breaking just a little as he pushed the words past the stricture of panic in his heart and lungs. Sam swallowed, glancing back and forth between his brother and father, feet rooted to the spot. “I was hungry, it was my fault. Not Sammy, Dad, please.”

“Dean, Sam’s old enough to make his own call. Nobody can make him do something he doesn’t want. I’m not letting it slide again. Stand down.”

“But Dad-”

“Dean! Attention!” The sudden harsh bark had Dean immediately snapping ramrod straight, shoulders back, head held high, eyes straight forward. “Stand down and wait your turn. Any more out of you and you’re making it worse. I’m not gonna kill him, son.” Dad’s voice grew gentler on the last line. 

Dean swallowed but stared straight ahead as he’d been told. 

“Yes sir.” 

John took Sam by the arma nd guided him firmly to a heap of wood that just stood at a height level with Sam’s narrow hips. He took off his carhart and laid it over the rough, splintered surface to act as a buffer between his son’s hands and the wood. 

“Thirteen licks. Don’t move or we start over,” Dad said. Sam’s jaw tensed angrily and his eyes flashed for a moment, but his gaze flicked to the belt in Dad’s hand and his bravado drained away with the color from his face. He leaned against the coat Dad had placed, fists gripping handfuls of the well-worn fabric, clinging white-knuckled while he held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut. His cheeks were burning already from the situation. He could feel Dean’s eyes on him and it made this all so much more intolerable. But he had no idea what to expect. 

Dad’s big, warm hand settled on his back; there was a second or two of tense silence lasting an eternity, and then Sam involuntarily cringed when he felt Dad’s hand shift as his body twisted and the belt was raised. 

“Wait, Dad, stop!” Dean’s sudden outburst brought a growl of frustration from John. 

“Dean…”

“Extra, I know. Just give it to me, okay? I’ll take it, I can take Sammy’s. Don’t belt him Dad, please. Please, come on...I’m begging here.” 

Sam’s head jerked up and he half turned around to stare in shock. 

“What? No, Dean, that’s stupid! Dad, don’t let him.”

“Kid, that’s not the point of this,” John said, irritation starting to bleed through his hard-earned calm, level-headedness. He was trying to do it right this time, and he just couldn’t get it over with for all the interruptions. “Shut up, for the last time. Sam’s manning up; you could stand to, too. Do you want to have dinner sometime tonight, or would you rather drag this out? I’ll keep us all out here if I have to. Dean. Attention. Sam-”

Sam needed no second bidding, turning and gritting his teeth, bracing himself. Dad didn’t hesitate this time. As soon as Sam was in position the familiar big, heavy, warm hand settled on his back, making his stomach flop with dread before a thin hiss gave a hint of warning before the crack of the first blow shook Sam’s world. He jolted forward, a harsh gasp making him choke on the dusty woodshed air as he doubled over further. The second lash drew a yelp of pain as he dropped his head, hair falling over his face, biting his lip to try to stop the next cry from taking him by surprise. 

The next moments were ones of confusion. There was the sound of leather striking once again, but this time there was no burning pain. Instead, the warmth of a body pressed against Sam, weighing him down further over the wood pile. Dad cursed. The belt didn’t stop though; a steady, measured staccato that Sam was sure could be heard even outside the shed if anyone was near enough. It seemed so much louder now that he wasn’t feeling it’s effects. A moment later, without a pause in the rhythm, the protection was ripped away and Sam pushed up, straightening and looking a few feet to his left where Dad had driven Dean over the wood, continuing the licking Dean had volunteered himself for, holding him firmly with a hand on the back of his neck. Dean gripped the edge of the carhart with one hand and curled the other arm up over his slightly bowed head, breathing through the pain and listening to Dad’s lecture.   
“I know I gave you reason to act this way, Dean. I’m not blaming you for it. But that had to stop and so does this, so get it together. I’m not gonna hurt you or Sammy, son. I promise. Not this time.”

The way his hard, stern voice gentled as he spoke and the level control of the punishment made something break a little in Dean’s chest. Dad sounded...safe. Comforting. No rage, no Jack Daniel’s spurring him on. Even the pain from the belt -wow it hurt- though it had him rising on his toes every lash and twisting the old Carhart in a death-grip, it wasn’t the white hot agony and delirium he was used to, the pain that had him teetering between loss of control and unconsciousness. Dean felt his throat tighten and his chest spasm suddenly, his eyes blurring with tears. 

“You hearing me, Dean?” Dad prompted, patiently, not letting up or slowing his pace. Dean nodded dutifully, taking a second longer to find his words. 

“Yes -ow- Yes, sir. I can’t just stand there, Dad, when you hit him...I...together?”

John felt a surge of emotion; an odd mixture of pride in his sons and guilt at the life he felt he had no choice but to force on them. He lowered the belt for a moment and patted Dean’s shoulder. Dean leaned into it, keeping his hands where they were and his head bowed. John met Sam’s gaze; the kid had been staring open-mouthed and his round eyes were already red-rimmed. 

“It’s up to you two,” John said, and immediately his youngest took a step closer to his big brother, and Dean uncurled his right arm from over his head and reached out to Sammy, taking a fistfull of the shoulder of his shirt and holding on in a gesture of comfort for them both.   
Together they stood and braced, waiting to weather this trial side by side, Sam quivering with nerves and uncertainty but trusting in his brother, Dean quivering with pain and relief and trusting in his father to care for them both. Dad had his answer. 

Sammy wasn’t used to the bite of leather, and Dean winced at each sharp intake of breath or smothered whimper his little brother was holding back. They hurt worse than his own turns under the punishment. He squeezed his eyes closed and held on, counting quietly through set teeth to help Sam to the promised number, watching it grow smaller together. 

And the belt swung. 

 

\------------

The crisp bubble of golden grease in the fry-daddy filled the kitchen with steam and hot, mouth-watering smells as Bobby dumped another basket-full of the frozen french-fries onto a cookie sheet and started another batch. He flipped the burger patties on the stove, causing the hiss of raw meat on the hot iron to add to the kitchen sounds partially obscuring the comforting, familiar tunes of Kenny Rogers floating from the ancient radio in the corner. The deep, throaty rumble of the Impala in the yard would have been lost in the easy conglomeration of dinner being made, but Bobby was keeping an ear out. He set the last fixings on the table and went to the door, expecting a grim-faced John and two silent, downcast boys. 

“Dad! Can we watch Walker Texas Ranger? Please?”

“Aww, come on, Sammy, is that the only Chuck Norris movie you like?”

“I thought you liked Chuck Norris, Dean,” John’s voice had a smile in it. Dean snorted. 

“Yeah, but Bobby has a few that we haven’t even seen yet! Why watch a classic when there are other classics you haven’t discovered?”

Bobby stared in astonishment as John walked past him into the house, chuckling at his boys’ conversation. He handed Bobby the keys and slapped his shoulder as he followed them into the kitchen for dinner. They were smiling. Talking. No hung heads, no avoidant eyes. As Sam leaned over the table, trying to reach the hamburger buns on the other side, John even reached across and ruffled his hair briefly. 

Bobby released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, breaking cold coke bottles out of the fridge for Sam and Dean and handing John a cold one. Whatever had happened in that old woodshed, Johnny had done right. Bobby was proud of him. And he knew that, tonight, his boys would be alright.


End file.
